


that we both know

by elanoides



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 12:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elanoides/pseuds/elanoides
Summary: “Stop by the church,” he says, “Sunday morning,” he says, “sure you’re welcome,” he says, all warm, abortive gestures—Clayton remembers hands hard-knuckled on a shotgun, but tonight there’s half a blessing every time he moves.[or: after the dust settles, Clayton Sharpe has a decision to make.]
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 26
Kudos: 181





	that we both know

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Master & a Hound" by Gregory Alan Isakov. Also, thanks to the Undeadwood discord!
> 
> Imagine, if you will, that the final episode of UnDeadwood is drawing to a close, allowing time for a few last conversations between our reluctant heroes. And now imagine that Matt (the Mercer one) holds his turn, until everyone else has said what they wanted to say, and the literal and fictional night is growing late. Here's what happens next.

Nightfall finds them in the Gem Saloon, drinking on Swearingen’s dime. Clayton doesn’t mind. Facing down the undead and betting their souls at cards should entitle them to whiskey on the house, he figures.

Aloysius dances with Annabelle on the floor, disappears with her, shows up again a while later. Miriam and Arabella sit with their heads together across the table, talking in low voices and bursting into laughter every so often. Probably cooking up some plot or other. Aloysius takes a chair when he returns and he and Arabella get to playing spit with a gilt-edged deck out of Arabella’s pocket. Miriam takes the deck from Arabella and beats both her and Aloysius handily, then the two of them together. Arabella’s getting red in the face with sheer frustration, and Aloysius is watching the cards like a hawk. Miriam’s just smiling, full-on cat that got the cream as her hands dart over the table.

Clayton cuts the deck for them on every shuffle. He considers stacking it one way or the other, but lets it go; Miriam hardly needs help and Arabella and Aloysius are too invested to cheat a win now. Besides, they’re all better shots than he expected—maybe better than they used to be before they met, what, two days ago—and he likes being in one piece. As much as he can be right now, anyway. He takes another swig of whiskey.

Then: “It’s a nice night,” the Reverend says beside him.

The other thing about the Gem Saloon tonight is that the Reverend is there too. He’s been sitting next to Clayton, not drinking, but chatting with Aloysius and Arabella and Miriam and being all brown eyes and easy smile at anyone who comes near. “Stop by the church,” he says, “Sunday morning,” he says, “sure you’re welcome,” he says, all warm, abortive gestures—Clayton remembers hands hard-knuckled on a shotgun, but tonight there’s half a blessing every time he moves.

So Clayton’s been trying not to think about the Reverend. Just—trying not to. But he puts his glass down and turns, slow, aiming a steady gaze from under the brim of his hat. “Sure is.”

“I’m glad you came out with us,” the Reverend says, like it’s nothing. “I’m sure you’re planning to move on soon, but... it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Sharpe.”

Clayton grunts, and takes another drink, because it’s easier than looking at the Reverend’s warm brown eyes a minute longer. He’s so fucking _earnest_ all the goddamn time, or at least acts it. It hurts to look at.

“Anyway,” the Reverend says, “I ought to be up early tomorrow. I’ll see myself out.”

“I—” Clayton says, half-raises a hand, then thinks very strongly better of it. “You—have a good night.”

“You as well,” the Reverend says. Maybe he almost says something else, but if so, he thinks better of it.

He makes his goodbyes to Arabella, Aloysius, and Miriam—Aloysius and Arabella look up from their game, and Miriam takes the chance to finish off her draw pile for her eighth win of the night, then wishes the Reverend her own farewell as Arabella gasps in genuine offense and Aloysius slaps the table—and then he’s moving carefully between tables, taking the long way around, no slipping grace or fleet-footed awareness, just nodding and smiling at anyone who looks up. Then he’s out the door and into the night.

Clayton watches him go. He lifts his glass to his lips, sips whiskey and draws the burn of it across his tongue. He doesn’t think about the way the Reverend staggered bare hours ago, with a bullet through his thigh and a shotgun in his hand—he brought the gun to his shoulder, staring down the barrel like he knew it, and stood rock-solid in the dust of a recoil that could’ve knocked a stronger man back...

Clayton doesn’t think about a lot of things.

He cuts the deck for Miriam again when she holds it out to him. Drains his whiskey and orders another. Stares into it, with a look that does the go-away growling for him. Although, if anyone approaches, the rest will probably guide them off anyway.

When Miriam pushes the deck into his peripheral, he cuts it again, hands to cards to table. Not too long after that, Miriam marks her tenth win for the evening and quits while she’s ahead. Aloysius throws himself back in his chair, and Arabella scoffs, but her eyes are so bright it doesn’t mean a thing.

She folds the deck back together and tucks it away. “Good game, Miriam.”

“Don’t worry,” Miriam replies, smiling, “you’ll pick it up soon enough.”

“Not soon enough to beat you,” Aloysius tells her.

Miriam’s smile turns awfully self-satisfied. “Maybe not that.”

Arabella hides a yawn with her hand. “I ought to head home. Mr. Whitlock will be... well, he won’t be missing me. But I’d better sleep anyway.”

“We all should,” Miriam says, rising. “I suppose I’ll see you all tomorrow? I’m sure I’ll see the Reverend, but I know the rest of you have... business. Of one kind or another.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Arabella says. “Not yet.”

“Believe it or not,” Aloysius agrees, “this town is the best chance at a future I’ve had in years. Don’t feel like moving on just yet.”

Miriam smiles. It’s a quiet, serious thing, more genuine than some she’s worn. “That is easier to believe than you might think, Mr. Fogg.”

“Maybe so,” Aloysius says. “Maybe so.”

Arabella turns, and Clayton feels more than sees her gaze land on him. “And you, Mr. Sharpe?”

“What about it?”

“Will we be seeing you tomorrow?”

There are stares in this town. There are watching eyes and names on boards and telegraphs to sheriffs. There’s danger around every corner and he can’t duck all of it. It’ll swallow him alive one of these days—has got to, at some point.

“Don’t know yet,” Clayton says.

“At least let us know when you’re going,” Miriam says. “Leave a note if you must.”

He looks at her—at all of them. Nods once. “I’ll do my best.”

They get their coats and return their glasses to the bar. He returns Aloysius’s handshake and pats Arabella’s shoulder when she bids him farewell. Before Miriam leaves, she lays a feather-light hand on his shoulder. “You ought to rest, at least. Even if you mean to ride out at dawn.”

“I will,” he says. “Just want to finish my drink.”

“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Well, tell the good Father hello from me.”

Clayton’s gaze snaps to her before he remembers that’s a dead giveaway. Miriam just chuckles at him. “It’s all right. Whether you see him or not. But I think he’d like to see you.” She steps around the table after Arabella and Aloysius, looks back at him. “Good night, Clayton.”

He touches the brim of his hat to her. “G’night. Miriam.”

She leaves, and he’s left with his whiskey.

He waits a little while longer in the hazy zoetrope of people drinking and getting drunk, playing cards, getting taken for their coats, the endless night cycle of the finest establishments he ever finds himself in these days. He gets up and walks his glass back to the bar. Goes back to the table and gets his coat. Wanders past a game of craps, bets the line in his head, wins on the next toss and hides a smug smile beneath his hat as the player, who clearly bet against, throws his hands and an expletive into the air.

Then he’s at the door, and he slips outside, tugging his coat close around his shoulders against the night air. The street isn’t quiet—Deadwood never is—but it’s dark and it’s just lonely enough to feel safe.

He gets around the corner and, with the lamps out of his sight, looks up at the sky. He finds the Dipper, then the North Star. The Scorpion and the Queen are there, too, distant tiny pinpoints.

Clayton takes a deep breath and turns. The back door of the church greets him. It’s tight shut, but there’s still a light on inside.

He knocks.

Footsteps sound, and before he can think better of whatever decision he made in the hazy half-dark of the saloon, the door springs open and the Reverend appears. “Mr. Sharpe,” he says, sounding surprised.

“Evening,” Clayton says.

“Ah—come in,” the Reverend says, and steps back from the door. So Clayton goes, tipping his hat back on his head a bit. The Reverend shuts the door behind him, then opens the door to the sanctuary and ushers him through. The room is large and silent, and the pews stand in near-even, vacant rows. “Did you want something? It’s—a little bit of a surprise to see you so late, I must admit. A pleasant surprise.”

Clayton turns to face him. He’s removed his coat, dressed down to his shirt and collar. His full attention feels like something Clayton can’t even name.

Clayton rubs his mouth with a hand. Buys himself a moment to back out, if he wants, but instead he says, “Got a confession to make.”

The Reverend’s eyebrows go far up his forehead, then settle back down as he masks himself in priestly serenity. Clayton has never liked that mask. “Of course,” the Reverend says. “All are welcome in the house of the Lord.”

“Ain’t confessing to God,” Clayton says.

“Oh,” the Reverend says. “All right.” He pauses. “Why not? If I may ask. You’ve alluded to being religious once—a while ago?”

“Used to be,” Clayton says. He still knows the words, sometimes—the phrases the Reverend murmurs, echoing as though below a vaulted ceiling. “But I’ve seen too much since then. You know how it goes.”

This last is a guess, but the Reverend—there’s something about him that emerges when he looks down the barrel of a gun. It shows between the startle and the smile, when he doesn’t notice someone coming up on him. His walk suggests the weight of a weapon he doesn’t wear anymore, and Clayton can’t help but see it.

The Reverend has grown still, looking at Clayton in the semidarkness of the sanctuary. The pastoral mask has dissolved, and something different is in its place. “Yes,” he says at last. “I suppose I do.”

The sanctuary is silent but for their voices, and when the Reverend stops speaking it becomes quieter still. Clayton swears he can hear his heartbeat, his blood in his ears. For a moment, a moment, the town is silent too. There are no gunshots, and the shouting falls to murmurs, and in the dimness and the stillness Clayton looks at the Reverend. The Reverend looks back. His eyes are dark and luminous, somehow, holding light in their depths. Stars under storm.

“You said—a confession,” the Reverend says, very softly.

“That I did,” Clayton says, out of somewhere deep inside himself.

The Reverend looks at him. “I’m listening.”

They are three feet apart. It feels like miles. “I know,” Clayton says, and he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the bounty posters. The paper crinkles like a fistful of buckshot as he unfolds it, and he holds it out to the Reverend, not breathing.

The Reverend takes it, and he looks at the drawing and the name and the bounty, and he looks back at Clayton, and he looks at the drawing again. His lips form a tiny smile.

“What?” Clayton finally snaps.

“They got your nose wrong,” the Reverend says.

Clayton huffs out a fragment of a laugh.

“Was this the confession?” the Reverend asks.

“No,” Clayton says, and steps closer to take the posters back. He folds them into quarters and puts them into his pocket again. “You know how long that bounty’s been out on me?”

“How long?”

“Ten years.” The Reverend’s eyebrows rise. Clayton bulls onward. “And you know why it hasn’t come due yet?”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t stopped running a day of my life since then.” The words spill out of him like blood into the church, sinking slowly on its oil-warped foundations, and for a moment he swears he’s sinking too, falling into a darkness that would swallow him. “I can’t stay in one place anymore, can’t let my name be known. I might have to leave in a year and a day or when the telegraph comes tomorrow morning. I should start running now, but as it turns out I don’t fucking want to anymore.”

He stops at that. Forces himself to shut up and leave the words in the air. Watches the Reverend mull it over, until he finally says, “I— thank you. Thank you,” and then, “Would you mind if I tendered you a confession of my own?”

“Go right ahead,” Clayton says. He finds the stillest place inside himself and clings to it, steadies himself.

“Someone in this town knows who I am,” the Reverend says. “I don’t think you were there. They—ah—challenged me. I scared them off eventually.” There is a coldness to him that reminds Clayton of his own stillness and it is gratifying to see it in another person. “Of course, that wasn’t the end of it. They’ll be back. Or someone else will. I should pack up and go. I could be gone by dawn. But...” The Reverend looks up, around the church, to the chevron line of ceiling beams and the dim light lapping over the pews like water. He turns back to Clayton, and he says, “I want this more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

“Yeah,” Clayton says, and it comes out low, from the bottom of his chest. “I’m with you on that.”

They’re close—drifted into each other, maybe, and he moves closer now, as though pulled, as though falling. The Reverend reaches out, that small half-gesture that moves like benediction, and it comes to rest on Clayton’s arm.

“Do you—?” the Reverend whispers.

Clayton nods. “C’mere,” he says, and doesn’t even think about how soft it sounded, just closes that last inch and kisses the Reverend square on the mouth.

He isn’t sure, afterward, who moved first: they were almost in each other’s arms already. Doesn’t matter, Clayton decides; the kiss is hot as sunlight and he forgets everything but the Reverend’s hands coming to settle, so lightly, on his shoulders.

They separate, very briefly, breathing the same still air. “God in heaven, Clayton,” the Reverend murmurs, and Clayton tugs him down again. The Reverend’s laugh is lost between their lips and it turns into a long, wavering exhale. He kisses like he hasn’t held anyone in so long that it feels strange and new again. Clayton knows he’s just the same, but he stumbles anyway when the Reverend’s hand brushes through his hair.

He draws back barely an inch, finds the Reverend’s gaze in the darkness, and pushes forward, hard into his touch. The Reverend stumbles backward—one step, two, then hits the closest pew and folds down onto it. Clayton half-falls into him, gets a knee on the pew and a foot on the ground and bows himself over him, and the Reverend kisses him deep and desperate, like there won’t be a tomorrow if he ever lets go.

When they part, after god knows how long, the church is silent.

“Well, Reverend?” Clayton murmurs.

“You’re in my lap, I think you’re allowed to call me Matthew now,” the Reverend says, eyes full of something heady and dark like wine.

“I am not in your lap,” Clayton tells him.

Matthew raises an eyebrow and smooths both hands slow down Clayton’s sides, lingering on his waist, hips, thighs. Clayton admits to himself that he did fall into the pew with a knee on one side of Matthew’s lap and a leg braced on the other, but that isn’t the same thing; still, he shivers at the touch and yanks Matthew hard into another kiss, and Matthew comes freely, laughing.

“But,” Matthew murmurs, a moment later, “I should say, I—I do think—I plan to stay. And if you will as well...”

“If it’s the end of both of us,” Clayton says, low.

“I don’t think it will be,” Matthew whispers. Like telling a secret.

Instead of agreeing, Clayton kisses him slow and deep, presses into the warmth of his hands as hot as dawn and does not pull away.

He thinks Matthew will understand.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @swallowtailed on tumblr-- come say hi!! And leave a kudos or a comment if the mood so strikes you.


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